Lover To Lover
by barefootbean
Summary: Rita/Raven; for the lover100 challenge on Livejournal! A bag of colorful beansized drabbles and short stories for the Rita/Raven lover. Varying genres and ratings; 9 out of 100 posted. Nine: "Snitch."
1. 092: bedroom

**Lover to Lover**

_one: bedroom, tangled in the sheets_

**Tangled Up In You  
><strong>_It was as dark as night, yet everything about her still carried over the shrill whining of his heart. 'It's natural," she said, "for your blast heart to do that under pressure." He was tangled up. In the sheets; in her; and in everything else, too. He could have been drowning and not have known the difference. **Some sexual humor.**_

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><p>"<em>He lies on his side, hips stacked, chest thrown <em>_back, chin thrust forward as in waking, as if, __after his lover has seen to his lovely body __on the white sheets, he will rise and, __with the quivering firefly of his cigarette, __move nude through the predawn kitchen."_

_-The Cadaver, after Jean Riolan's_ Les oeuvres anatomiques, _1629_

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><p>The night could have gone on, but it wouldn't have felt near the equivalent of what it felt like when she was there.<p>

What it felt like when her calves brushed his during the night, or when he'd wake before her and find her on his side of the bed, curled into his chest and smelling like frost because the quilt was never _quite_ warm enough for her, and he didn't have the heart to tell her that _Rita, there are blankets in the closet, hon, _because he was selfish and cold and he took perverse delight in the fact that she was _his_.

The night could have gone on, but it wouldn't have felt normal if it had, because interruptions were frequent during the evenings, when wine and drink and sex were common, and they were lucky to ever make it past first base before something came up, in the form of a textbook, the damn neighbor next door who had called child services more than once, or the form of woozy tired gasps he never could ever figure out who exactly uttered first. _You, _old man_, because you _have _no sense of stamina–_

All the interruptions blurred together though, and tonight, lying half-stripped in bed with her shirt dangling teasingly from her shoulders, and eyes as blue as he'd ever seen them with the room lit up in the dullest and strangest shade of green, it was simply that.

"Please tell me it won't be doing this forever," he said desperately, and she let out a quiet breath from her lungs, a sigh of frustration as he'd came to recognize it by, and it caressed his already exposed chest like a titillate. Something warm, something soft, something familiar. He deliberately ignored the breasts against his shoulder then, and tried to think thoughts that _didn't_ involve being turned on–

Soft but calloused fingers ran flat across his chest, tapped the blastia with an undeniable curious but irritable rap, and then the formula lit up like a city of obnoxious sprawling lights, flaming orange in color above him, and he immediately felt like cursing because sleep was so obviously fleeting now when everything glowed like the surface of the sun.

"Sorry, old man, but I think I'm going to have to take a look at this..." Her voice was still quiet, and Raven closed his eyes, taking a heady breath of her. His head spun as her hair dipped too close, like that morning's shampoo, and he could have been drowning because the affect was anything but calming when brown strands and soft skin were smelling like paradise itself.

"Ya think?" He uttered, and it came out huskier than he'd intended, drawl deep and accent thick and tongue set to rolling. Rita jabbed him in the ribs gently, and her glowering expression was illuminated like a portrait as the light grew a little brighter, reflecting off the curtains and setting fire to the pale, pasty, surrounding drywall that they both despised ever so much.

"Shut up. I know so, okay? It's just the blastia's power reacting to your messed up old man hormones; calm the hell down and it'll go back to normal."

Raven immediately pouted, and had to struggle to force the words out in his throat then, because they seemed so cruel with her looking like she was, hair lit up like flecks of gold and skin dangerous to look at for too long, because it taunted him. The sheets tangled in his legs as he shifted, took a breath, and forced himself into a sitting position where he didn't feel like a victim sprawled out on a surgical table, and she was face to face instead of face to chest (though he didn't mind that position much, either).

"...Does that mean no sex?" he whispered, and nearly choked when instead of nodding nonchalantly like she always did to such questions, she smiled bemusedly instead and promptly pressed a brief unexpected kiss to his lips.

"There's always tomorrow," she said carefully, watching his heart, and in that moment, his blastia shined like sin, and her eyes flashed up and her look became so smug at that he was tempted to steal it for himself.

"Ya know... I'm gonna hold ya to that, darlin'," he growled, fingers reaching for her, and she simply fired back a wicked expression in response, one of her bolder moments, fingers tapping his collar bone once, twice, thrice tauntingly as he pulled her _down, down, down..._

"Don't pick fights you can't win, old man. This is my house, therefore, _I_ make the decisions about what goes on here," she whispered, but he didn't let her go on anymore, kissing all her soft spots until she was all soft skin and soft hair and soft charcoal-blue eyes and _everything_ was melting as he stole the air from her lungs and the sheets tangled into knots and his blastia threatened to blind them both and he really couldn't give a _damn_ about _tomorrows_ when_ todays_ were always _so much more preferable–_

Pulling away, she clapped him on the chest, gasping. "–Are you even _listening?_" she demanded, and he smiled and kissed her wrist prettily, shaking his head _no_ and trailing butterflies all the way up the underside of her arm to the vulnerable spot of her throat, where his job with her shirt was only half complete and her breath brushed by his ear like silk and he was reminded that calmness, despite all appearances, _was_ actually rather important... and tomorrows were just as fine and lovely as any other day.

"Of course I am dear, just... takin' yer advice and relaxin'..." He sighed and sunk into her, head tucked just right into the curve of her neck where he'd familiarized himself with every trace of skin and strand that fell. Her body contoured against his own nicely, and a warm calf hesitantly slipped over the top of a trouser covered hip when he turned on his side, and he kissed the underside of her jaw in response about her cautious display affection, because despite appearances and denials, she _always_ kept that same sweet area within reach his reach.

"...Aaaand you couldn't be more creative than _this why?_" Her voice was full or mirth, and absently she brushed a dark lock from his face, though while it fell back in place like a curtain would before a window only moments afterwords, she didn't stop in her pursuit, and he kissed her sweet skin whenever it came too close, as it did often and his words were typically heavy and muffled when he tried to speak around such obstacles as a result.

"Somethin' wrong with this?" He murmured, _something wrong with us?_, and Rita simply shook her head after a moment, head low on her pillow and fingers now tracing around his blastia, blocking the amount of light shining from it with the simple press of her thumb. She looked too pretty lying there next to him, and so, _so_ sinful with her cheeks flushed and that single calf slung over his hip casually like some sort of throw blanket, and it was impossible to think straight much less clean thoughts when her other leg bumped his thigh.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, and it took a minute before Rita swore and promptly jabbed him in the chest harder than she had earlier, and he snuck his arms around her to make it more difficult. "Hey, _I'm_ just trying to stay warm because _you're_ hogging all the sheets again. And don't think I didn't see you turn down the thermostat before we came in here earlier," she accused, and Raven laughed aloud, stretching out his legs and pulling the sheets over them both until they were both tangled, leg to leg and chest to chest and face to face.

_Of course_ she would know his motives before he even had the chance to think twice about something so insignificant—and_ of course_ she would know him inside out better than he even knew himself, because Rita was smart, and that was only one of the many reasons why she shined as bright as she did.

Nights could try to pass, but they wouldn't without her. Because now, she was the sun in his life, and days couldn't pass when there was nothing to make them rise.

"Sure, darlin', go ahead an' make stuff up..." he murmured, lips close and voice shady, "But don't think_ I_ don't know ya secretly just wanna get cuddled." Her blessed silence was only short lived.

"...Where the hell you come up with these interpretations is completely beyond me. Pulling them out of your ass again?" She quipped, and Raven smirked and silenced her with a deep kiss, trying not to laugh as she didn't resist his tugging her firmly into his arms and rolling rolling rolling, until they were both tangled up in each other like intricate ropes of knots and any hope of escape was impossible.

"Sweetheart, it's the _finest _ass you've ever seen," he growled, and this time, it was her who laughed aloud in the silence of the room, chest shaking and head vibrating against his own bare one. The blastia was bright, still glowing, and it illuminated her face to a spectrum of hazy colors.

"Old Man," she whispered, "it's the _only_ ass I'll _ever _want to see..."


	2. 037: hurt

**Lover to Lover**

_three: hurt, the look in your eyes_

**Into Temptations  
><strong>_For something so fragile, so futile, he wondered why he was risking everything for something that wasn't bound to last. _**In-game, angst, pre-relationship**

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><p>He was breaking every moral he had ever held as something precious—including hers.<p>

Though, to be fair, she was breaking every part of _him_.

"Take another step, and I _will_ kill you," she threatened stiffly.

And when was she not?

She was sitting in the desk near the window of the inn, back turned to him and hunched low over the table. Open books were stacked in haphazardly made piles, teetering precariously on her mattress's edge. A lamp was lit, and the smell of pungent burning oil filled his nostrils.

He automatically held up a single hand in defense, palm spread wide and head hung low, even though the only glance she spared in his direction lasted less than a second, if even that. It was funny, because she sounded angry, yet that look was nothing if not regret. His mind immediately sounded the alarms, _get out before she kills ya—for real_, it screamed, and yet even then, it was a vulnerable moment he'd never seen from the likes of her, and it was absolutely terrifying. If he so much as turned his head to stare at his feet, out the window, anywhere but at her—he knew she'd disappear, but not that look.

It would linger still.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice was quiet enough that he heard her quill moving upon the parchment. And her gasp of frustration as the pen slipped and paper ripped.

"Rita darlin'... What haven't I told ya?"

The quill snapped instantly. "_Don't play stupid with me. Your_ _blastia,_ _old man,_ _your blastia!_"

He kept his voice even—as if that would do anything to calm her. "...And what about it?"

_Blastia_. Was that more important than him? Why she'd wanted to speak with him? Or was it important because in a very real and disheartening sense, it _was_ him?

"Oh, I don't know—maybe the fact that Alexei ripped your heart out and gave you a new one? That you were playing double-agent?" She still wouldn't look at him, keeping her face angled carefully away from his view. It was impossible to view her expression, even going by the reflection in the window. The fact that she was bringing up his past _now_, of all times... was ludicrous. "...It won't last forever, you know. That blastia. You do know that, right?"

_Better than even yourself, m' dear._

"Well, I'd be pretty damn stupid if I didn't, now wouldn't I?" Rita didn't reply, instead crumbling the parchment before her, and stretching her arm slowly to her left, she held the tip of it over the lantern. It caught almost immediately, and Raven half expected for her to hurl it at him with some ugly words to boot, but she simply held it in the palm of her hand, the flames licking at it until it was a bright blob of oranges and reds and grays.

"This, right here," she indicated, after a few seconds of silence, "could be you someday. That doesn't bother you?"

It did. But he wouldn't tell her that.

"Darlin', not sure you got the memo, but I've already died," he said softly. "Few things bothers this old man, anymore..."

He realized it was the wrong answer as soon as he'd spoken.

She swore and swiveled in her seat to hurl the mass of fire at him, and Raven leaped to the side as it hit the ground in a bright expressive explosion of sparks and ash. A few particles landed on his jacket, but he didn't move to brush them away less she develop a better arm and send him through the wall.

"_Urgh, you idiot!_" she screamed, waving her arms. Her small, stick-like arms. They looked so incredibly fragile, yet she could hit as hard as any man he knew. "Don't you get it!? _You could die!_ _Again! Permanently!_ And that _doesn't bother you?_" Her voice was incredulous, horrified almost—and undeniably scratchy.

That's when he noticed the tears. It was absolutely horrifying.

"...Rita."

"Answer the damn question, Raven." She ground it out between clenched teeth, fists squeezed tight at her sides. He yielded at last when he noticed the ink stains on her clothes, the way she was slightly leaning against the chair for balance, and that look that was just _made_ of stubborn etched into the fabric of her face. And the tears. They certainly weren't helping.

He could try all he wanted to ignore her, outwit her, or even annoy her, but she always won in the end, whether the situation was a competition... or not. She had a way of testing even his limits, and as far as most people knew, he didn't have much in the way of limits to begin with.

He sighed. "...Nobody really wants ta die twice, darlin'..."

"Be specific."

"_I_ don't wanna die twice, _genius mage_."

She gave him another raging look. "Don't be such a smart ass."

"Don't be such a pessimist, then. It's bad for yer mind, docs say. And please," he added, "_please_ stop yer cryin'. I hate it when women cry."

She stomped her foot in frustration. "I'm _not_ crying!"

"Hey hey heeey now sweetheart, age doesn't always dim the eyes..."

"I'm _not_ crying," she said again, and he almost had to wonder who she was trying to convince, because he wasn't taking the bait.

She finally calmed down slightly, swiping her messy hair from her face with a shaking hand before forcefully sitting down again, obviously trying to save face but being unsuccessful. Her knee banged the desk as she folded in on herself, a loud disturbance in an otherwise noiseless room, but she didn't notice, or simply didn't care. It was more than likely the latter, as if his teeth were rattling from the force of the blow, hers probably were, too.

He was tempted to say something along the lines of, "_Cryin's not such a great thing, either–_" or "_Darlin', of all the things ta cry over in the world you choose_ me?", but either or, the end results would still be the same, and the singed curtains in the corner from their last stay weeks before would catch fire again.

Suffice to say, he was at a loss as to what to say next. The great Rita Mordio crying—and over him no less. The apocalypse had to be on its way then. "So... What's this all about, anyway? Ya plannin' somethin'?"

She ignored him.

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be _selfish_, Rita darlin'–"

"I want you to let me fix your blastia. I need to check it." Her voice was quiet, and her words disturbing. Between the two, he didn't know which startled him more.

"...Huh?"

To her credit, Rita's voice was hardly scratchy anymore. She cleared her throat. "This... conversion process that I have in mind to stop the Adephagos... when the blastia are converted to spirits, I want to make sure yours won't be one of them." She placed her chin in a palm and eyed his chest from the corner of her eye, tapping her broken quill rhythmically. "That hermes blastia that's keeping you alive may have been working since the Great War, old man, but since it was installed by the likes of Alexei, I don't trust that it was created with the idea to last forever in mind. Alexei thought to use you as a tool until he got what he wanted, and therefore, you were expendable to him. It needs to be examined for me to be sure that something won't go wrong later. And I know it runs on your vitality, but... like I said, I don't trust Alexei."

He didn't even acknowledge the last bit. She might as well have simply said, _you need your head examined, _because that's all he heard.

Raven sauntered over to her desk after a few seconds passed, satisfied that she wasn't plotting his execution. The fact that she even remotely cared was rather touching, he found, considering her vileness and desire to maim him more often than not. The idea of having his heart worked on was still strangely repulsive, however. He doubted the feeling would ever leave him.

"...You sure about this?" _What, you need peace of mind that I'm not going to die again?_ She nodded her head softly, exhaustion evident. Raven stroked his stubble, then gave her a sly look, because depression really wasn't his favorite type of gig. "...Well, if you wanna see my bare chest that badly you could have sa–"

"Old man, don't make me hurt you." Her voice came out scratchy again, and Raven mentally kicked himself, because it was hard to remind himself that she was just as fragile as every other girl out there.

"Right, sorry sweetheart. So... ah, when do ya want to do this '_examinin' _' of yours, anyway?"

Rita glanced back at the paperwork scattered across her and the other girls' mattresses, frowning. "I'd prefer to do it tonight, but we can't do it in here." She blinked and turned her head away, flipping through one of the various open books she had open on the desk. The yawn didn't go unnoticed, even when she slyly covered it with a hand. "Let's try it i–"

"Hey, if yer gonna be noddin' off like that, I don't want you pokin' around in my heart this evenin'."

She glowered almost instantly in response. "What are you talking about? We have to do it tonight while we have the time–"

He held up his hands. "Lookie. I'm not plannin' on goin' anywhere, darlin'. We have all day tomorrow and the day after that, too, ya know. Sleep's important, so do us both a favor and get some beforehand alright?"

She frowned, but didn't argue. "...Fine," she conceded after a few agonizing seconds, "But tomorrow, you have to let me for sure, okay? I doubt our free time will last us for long."

"Sure thing, m' dear. Cross my heart and hope to die." He performed the action dramatically, bowing his head in a flourish, but Rita didn't pay him any mind, absently turning several more pages in her books. He really doubted she was even reading a word, so lost in her own head.

_She's probably read that book a million times and still countin'... knows every word, I'd bet._

Raven stood still for a few moments, simply watching her. For having been so worked up only moments before, she sure had calmed down faster than he'd expected.

_...Silly teenagers. It's all those crazy hormones actin' up–_

"Hey. I'm goin' now. Want me ta send the princess up?" Rita stifled another yawn, leaning back in her chair.

"Nah," she answered, gesturing around the room. "Like there's any place for her in here. I mean, she can come up if she wants, but now probably wouldn't be a good time..."

"Last I heard, she was with Yuri."

"Mm-hmm... Not surprising." With a sigh, Rita closed her book with a finger and stretched her limbs. Several cracked, and Raven winced with the realization of a _that's how _his_ back sounded in the morning_. Another resounding pop filled the room, followed by a contented sigh. "...She'd follow Yuri anywhere, you know. Doubt he even realizes it, though, the stupid idiot..."

"My my, darlin'... Yer soundin'... kind of_ touchy_ 'bout that." Raven's smirk was small, but she gave him the stink eye anyway after a few seconds passed, and only then did he realize she still hadn't forgiven him. Was that what she was so upset about?

"Yuri's adept at being a moron. I'm just concerned for her, okay?" She sniffed in dismissal, turning her attention back to the scattered documents at her side. "...Also, you can go now, you know. I don't need to be under constant surveillance by the likes of you."

Raven peered out the open window and down onto the streets below, stroking his stubble thoughtfully again, because his skin was thick and Rita' insults were only justified. "Well, see here darlin'... I gotta socialize with someone. Our little princess friend asked me ta keep an eye on ya... gave me a whole earful 'bout it, too." He gave Rita a pointed look. "I'm just simply doin' my job, see..."

Rita looked momentarily caught off guard, but then her eyes narrowed. "Stop kiddin' around! It's not like there's a reason why she would have to worry about me. She was probably concerned about _you _doing something stupid and is having _me_ watch _you_. Now get out before you die prematurely... you're becoming annoying, old man."

The thought hadn't even crossed his mind.

Raven immediately leaped away from the wall as she stood, a glowering beast at five-feet-two-inches. She snatched the book from her desk and smacked him on the arm with it.

"Hey! No need ta be so brutal!"

"Then get out!" He retreated across the room while she shuffled over to one of the beds, shoving a pile of papers aside. "...There. Now you can send Estelle up when she comes back, if you want."

"What? Not making a place for dear ol' Judith?"

"If she wants to sleep here too, fine. I don't care."

"Ya know, I bet ya do–"

"Get out!"

Raven scurried over to the door like a cockroach, turned on his heal last minute, saluted her, and deadpanned straight face a "Yes ma'am,", and Rita looked like she wanted to cry again. Maybe it was him, he thought, his presence that bothered her so much.

Rita wiped at her eyes and tried to appear fierce, but the exhaustion was evident. Mental breakdown? "Look, like you said, I need some sleep, okay? So just... go. I'll see you tonight."

Of course, her only way of dealing was with logic. What did that leave him with?

"Rita..." he tried again, but she just shook her head.

He supposed that it left him with nothing. _Nothing would come of this._


	3. 083: and

_**Lover to Lover**_

_four: and, in the silence of the night_

_**Remain Nameless  
><strong>__His names brought him no pleasure. They were simply recollections of a past never sent to rest. **Angst.**_

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><p>Between blurring the lines of past and present, working out all the twisted schemes in his head and massaging his temple when it all became too much... he never did notice when somebody else had found the solution he'd been so desperately searching for.<p>

_She_ could have worn it on her face like a mask, only on her, it was a natural, self-satisfied look; lips curled and cheeks flushed with an influential ruby shade that spoke of victory and bitter wines and late nights and glamorous juxtapositions of the 'thick-headed' variety. It was funny, because beneath all that open hostility, he often wondered if she wasn't if not more at a loss than himself in this stage, this walk down memory lane that always started and ended with a pair of knotted shoelaces and broken legs.

Because while he was ashamed of his name, she honestly didn't seem to give a damn. And it really _was_ honestly disconcerting, because while she never admitted to it, they both knew she cared about everything and anything that sent him into his downward spirals. That sent him tumbling when there was never a reason to have fallen in the first place and rabbit holes were nonexistent in this Wonderland.

They were hardly simple trips, and he sometimes wished he had never gotten her involved in the first place. Or at least, that she wasn't so damn smart as to be able to figure everything out on her own.

Though, in hindsight, if she _hadn't_ been as smart as she was (in comparison to the utter fool she made him out to be) he supposed attraction would have just been a fable with her—and a not an adamant supporting fact like it was now.

These strung together moments and observations she always pieced together like some messed up quilt... they were always accurate.

Rita simply didn't do _falsehoods _in her line of expertise.

"Schwann is a part of you. I don't see _why_ you can't acknowledge that for what it is. Maybe he _was_ a puppet for Alexei... and, well, maybe he was a bastard at one point, too, but... the point is... he's not anymore." She turned another page in her spell book, and he watched her pen move fluidly over the pages, scribbling here, marking something there... "...And it's all in the past anyway. It's stupid to worry about things like that now, you know?"

It was a nice thought, thinking that he had changed. That _she_ thought he had changed for the better. He wanted to believe it. He wanted it to be true. But she made it difficult, being how she was, all smart and beautiful and attractive and reading his every thought like he was one of her thick and heavy buckled tomes; he still felt the sin on his hands like it was yesterday. The blood. The hate he held towards his other halves. And today—the relationship between him and Rita that had erased any relations to the silly word '_platonic_'—still lingered. In his joints, in the bags under his eyes (in the discreet but very, very small hickey on the underside of her jaw that she denied every day of every week). Every time he so much as looked at his reflection after an evening spent loving everything that was her, teal eyes staring back in the mirror and calloused hands tying thick brown strands up in an attempt to hide away in the dawn's beckoning early light – Schwann and Damuron and Casey and Barbos and Yeager and Alexei and the Don all stared back silently – soundless curses on their lips, and dead eyes holding a contempt he never could bring himself to fathom. _You can't run—you can't forget aaaaaany of us–_

And sometimes, even Rita stared back in the mirror, eyes accusing and face sad. And when she turned her head away, hair a graceful breeze and feet falling softly on nothing but air—that was when everything felt heaviest.

It was impossible to fully conceal himself at any one time, in any place, in any state of mind, because he couldn't ever change the fact that he and Damuron and Schwann at one point in time had all shared the same body, the same mind, the same lungs, the same _heart._

_The same loves._

No... He couldn't change that. Not even death could change those sullen facts. They ran as deep and painful and ragged as every other forsaken sin out there—and weren't lenient in the least in regards to his fragile mental state. Every evening, when his death day rolled around in the early autumn months, the memories ate at him. Poked and prodded at him with jousts and loud ringing voices,_ Hey Raven, still playing games with Death?_

It was impossible to ever feel fully rested in the mornings when he was haunted even in his dreams. When Schwann claimed Rita was as justly _his_ as she was Raven's or Damuron's (despite the latter having been dead for the last thirteen years, dammit)—all the distinctions had long ago vanished and his identity felt as flimsy as a piece of cardboard flapping in the breeze.

And his heart. That certainly wasn't his own anymore.

Against all reason, he stepped out on a limb. The night was cold, and the air crisp. He watched his breath form a small patch of fog; watched _her_ cross her arms against the chill and toss another piece of wood onto the fire, turning it into a bright blaze of orange and crimson carousel colors with quiet murmurings and small, minute bewitching hand gestures.

Balancing himself carefully, he took in the sensation of gravity's consistent tug, testing it wearily with a graceful downward dip of his torso towards the earth below. He liked being high up where he could look down and see everything that she was up to—to see what the _world_ was up to. It was intriguing how a view point really could change one's perspective so much. From here, she looked irritated, a little worn around the edges, and a bit preoccupied—back against his tree several yards below, stockings covered in dirt, book in her lap, and goggles casually strewn out in the grass beside her as if they really weren't something she honestly cared about.

But that was Rita, and upon a closer inspection when she tilted her head back to to glance up at him, hair falling away from her face and eyes narrowed, waiting for him to leap and fall to his death, he knew that it was simple exhaustion in it's most common form warping her lovely features in his eyes. It wasn't his fault that his sense of perception had been screwed over all week. And she certainly wasn't to blame for the the fact that the air in his lungs felt like shards of Zopheir's embankments either.

"...Ya really believe that, hon?" he murmured back down to her, but he thought his voice to be lost in the night, carried away by the crackle of the fire and the beasts singing in the forest and lost in her own steady, studious gaze that was latched on to him like a roper. He wouldn't have minded too much if she hadn't been listening; if he was lucky – and had a bit more faith – saying the words twice and thrice over would only have made them ring truer.

For that he would have given almost anything.

But only almost, because he was a selfish man and she was the one constant he was not so willing to part with.

"Of course I do, moron." She was obviously tired, rubbing at her eyes with a balled up fist and gloved hand, pen in palm, and all traces of genius still lingering despite her rumpled appearance. Momentarily, he felt guilty abandoning her to the cold even with the fire and himself close by. It wasn't as if his actions didn't affect her now as well as himself, and perhaps he really _was_ stupid for having assumed so. "What I mean is... If you're going to be stupid and erase _him_, you might as well kill yourself off as well. You're the same person, whether you like it or not," she called up, voice calm yet strangled peculiar.

"So what yer basically sayin' is... I can't be me without _him?_" Raven took several tentative steps across the wide branch, arms spread wide and loose hair strands blowing in his eyes occasionally from the evening breezes. He blinked them away, and watched his footing carefully as the branch slowly began to bend as he placed his right foot in front of the other, until soon a large majority of the weaker branches of the tree were encompassing him, and the leaves rustled soothing melodies into the crook of his ear like a lullaby, all soft sounds and soft tunes and soft buds plucking at his hair like the strings on a harp.

If he glanced straight up, and if he had been born with the eyes of an entelexeia, Mt. Temza would have been looming up before him, as rugged and barren and desecrate as it had been when he'd woken that first time, face shoved in the dirt and chest bare, the sky raining death like the blow he'd been struck with that had nearly snapped him in two–

"Well, kind of... but you're misinterpreting what I'm really trying to get across here." Even with his back to her, the skepticism still shined through. A redeeming quality he recognized as easily as the seven hairs of stubble on his chin.

"Really?" His voice felt weak, minute, and he tried the words out again, clearing his throat awkwardly. It was but a whisper of the normal verbosity he possessed though, all wise cracks and perpetual humor—and momentarily, it felt like Schwann was staring him in the mirror all over again. That miserable, selfish, bastardly _look._

_You're the biggest fool if I ever met one. Why does it even matter that you have another name? Just... stick with the one you're comfortable with and stop whining so damn much about something so stupendously simple–_

On reflex, his arm jerked, and he caught himself before he could fall, dangling from a thicker, sturdier branch above his head with two hands and legs walking on air. Needles and pine cones rained down in response, and there was an indignant shout below him, followed by an extremely terrifying string of curses. A pine cone went hurtling by his ear at impressive speeds, and Raven glanced down slowly, expressionlessly, at the enraged genius glaring up at him below, two feet rooted to the forest ground, brown hair glowing orange in the firelight and silhouette creeping up the tree towards him.

"Hey! Tarzan! Stop screwing around! If you fall, there's no way I'm picking up the pieces!" But of course it'd be her who would keep him intact when everything had been shot to hell. Maybe not in the _gentle_ manner he would have hoped for, but there was a limit to how much one could ask from another. And he didn't want to tread upon hers.

Wearily and with a sigh, Raven detached himself from the overhead branches carefully; latching onto a branch to his right near the base of the tree, he calmly swung to another below him, gripped the one there for a moment, and then allowed himself to fall the remaining ten feet, landing on the dewy grass below with only a grunt and an accompanying swoosh of air. He let himself collapse into a crumpled heap near her feet almost immediately afterwords, close to the fire's pleasant warmth and her soft complexion, and stared up at the sky in what he was sure looked like absolute boredom, breathing deeply as his lungs tried to catch up with the swift movements that came with listening to a drill sergeant.

Surprisingly, Rita didn't say a word about the fact that he was keeping his hands to himself for once—nor anything about the fact that the bags under his eyes actually reflected his age for once, lying there in veiled misery. She just simply observed him for a moment, frowning casually as her pen went _tap tap tap_ along the side of her leg, but he wasn't so lost in his own thoughts as to not recognize what that look really meant when her lips visibly tugged down a few seconds later, and she tossed the pen aside.

It seemed several years of dealing with his actions had prepared her for everything. He wished he could have said the same, as her words still knocked him head over heels whenever she came up with a new revelation, and it was like falling for her all over again. Falling for her words and quirky charm and cute looks and that volatile hostility that really _shouldn't_ have been as attractive as it was...

"I'm saying that you _are_ Schwann, and—well... he's you too, if that makes sense." Rita resumed the conversation as if the interruption had never occurred, fiddling with her hands and popping joints quietly. She did a few stretches, pulling an arm over head and glancing up at the sky. "He's just you with a different name, is what I really mean," she finished quietly.

He didn't know what would suffice as a relative response, so simply said nothing at all.

"...It's a fact," She muttered after a moment, and he could only grin slightly then at the idiocy she sometimes unknowingly wrought on him that made him feel as brash as the ignorant child he'd been when he was younger, and the punishments that came with mistaking too much.

The grass tickled the vulnerable spot at the back of his neck, and he shivered subtly when her knee bumped his unintentionally when she shifted. "You're being awfully quiet... Still not understanding?" she asked suspiciously, and Raven's lips twitched a little more at her persistence, her voice, her underlying concern...

"Nah, I understand... I just..."

"...Just what?" For such a bold person, she worked caution as well as she did everything else.

Raven exhaled slowly, feeling himself sinking into the earth while he strived to gather his thoughts, like a weight slipping towards the ocean floor... "I just... don't like the feelin' I'm getting from hearin' ya say that, is all..." He said each word slowly, because they were heavy words, and the air felt thin beneath the surface, when all that he was doing was drifting down, down, down and the sky was getting blacker and the fire dimmer dimmer dimmer...

"...You don't like confessing, is what you mean."

Her voice brought him back, and he swallowed when he caught hold of her eyes, adam's apple bobbing pretentiously... and averted his gaze away. "...Yep. That about summarizes it," he mumbled, and her disbelieving snort was short lived, a short but powerful _ha_ that made his head shake softly when she shifted up beside him again, fabric brushing past his shoulder as she stretched out almost perpendicular to himself, long legs splayed over the roots of the giant tree and arms strewn above her head casually, near his own, as if to say, _I give up, you were a hopeless basket case to start with._

Instead, her smile was wan, and her eyes tired. "What you're being is _stupid_. Nobody said _anything_ about you having to make a confession. I'm just trying to make a point here, and you're twisting my words around in your head." She said the first bit almost thoughtfully, but it was lost on him beyond all that was sweetness and smart talking and the fact that air was filling his lungs with cool crystals and diamonds of blastia variety.

"Darlin', yer the only one," he murmured half-heartedly in response, and wondered if she had taken the opportunity to slug him in the face if that wouldn't have made everything better, because he felt like an ass, and the fire was a bit too hot for him at this point, and his lungs hurt, and his head hurt, and everything was just so–

She was quiet for a moment, fiddling with her hands like she always did because she was good with them—and then, hesitantly, as if he wasn't the only one struggling to breathe through the memories, she spoke: "You know... if you're really struggling that much... then just... remain_ nameless _if you're_ that_ opposed to dealing with this stupid situation."

If Raven had been in a laughing mood, his would have been a bitter and loud bark at the sky. Schwann and Damuron's mocking expressions felt like pinpricks beating against his skull, and that only made everything worse because it had been dark on that cold mountain top when he'd came to, and technically, who ever has a name when brought back from the dead?

"Would you hate me any less if I did that?" He asked instead, and found these things would have been easier to say if she really had broken his lip with a fist. Words were easier to say when he himself couldn't understand what he was speaking. Words were easier to say when he couldn't _hear_ what he was saying either.

She shifted on to her side shortly, curved in his general direction. If he turned his head just so to his right, he could see her face, and the suspicious expression that graced it, eyebrows narrowed. "...Are you trying to tell me something, old man...?"

And suddenly, there was a lot he wanted to tell and a lot he wanted to ask.

The fire crackled ominously, and his voice felt painfully hoarse even to his own ears.

"Are you still angry with me for kidnapping Estelle several years ago?"

He didn't know who was more appalled: him, with his brash tongue and stupidity and scraggly stubble for bringing up such an event, or herself, as he hadn't seen her give him that truly startled doe-eyed look since the day they'd both confessed things that had altered a lot of went down as 'moral standards and social regulations' into something that only they themselves were ever able to justify.

Sometimes, he still struggled to justify it himself, but she never seemed to care. And for the record, Schwann and Damuron didn't give it a hell of a lot of thought, either.

Affection came and went—just as words and plucked vocal strands hummed.

"W-what? Where the hell did that come from–" He closed his eyes at her aggravated expression, because he knew it was exactly what she would have given him under the circumstances, and he was a fool for thinking for even a fragment of a second that she would have responded with anything but bewilderment and rage.

"Could you please... just answer the question?" He asked it with deliberate slowness, enunciating each word as if they were hard to say. And frankly, they were, because asking her to do something was like asking the clear sky to rain, and that was a myth in and of itself.

Rita looked torn; somewhere between ready to strangle him, and ready to slap him. Between the two choices he knew so well, the first one always seemed to lead to outcomes that while wholesomely better, he never could quite predict what determined them to be.

"Rita..." he said again, for the sake of letting her name fall from his lips, because he wanted to hear it. She was staring at his chest, avoiding his eyes.

"...Yeah. I am bothered by that. But I hardly hate you for it now... I mean, that's... _in the past..._"

"Rita..." When he opened his eyes to stare at her, she turned quiet again. And it was a heady silence, the ones that made choking easy to do, like when water was inhaled or shoes were tied too tight or air was too thin. He knew the feeling, because there wasn't a day that he didn't stumble across it at least once in his hurry for an escape. It was usually in her gaze when it wasn't in his head, because it was acute and piercing, and in a way that he could only refer to with the utmost affection, a familiar and wondrous sentiment at the most that seemed to make him feel vulnerable when he least wished to be.

Thoughtfully, Raven moistened his lips and watched the sky, arms tucked behind his head because pillows were nonexistent in Egothor Forest. He started carefully, cautiously, softly and gently, because words seemed more powerful when they were uttered under a blanket of stars and the fragility that came with it. "...You know the saying, 'Once a puppet, forever a puppet'?"

_Return like the puppet you are, Schwann. Since you survived, I will use you again..._

Rita's voice was like harsh velvet. "Well yeah, I do—_of course_ I do, but... what about it is even worth mentioning at this point? You've already made up your mind about how you feel about this... I don't see how me saying anything now will change that."

He had to remind himself that matters of the heart weren't always her forte. And then the fact that sometimes things were _worth_ telling.

His sigh was heavy, like a that of a person with iron boots. "It hasn't been easy, darlin'... lemme tell you... I _hate_ this time of the year. It's a goddamn _awful_ time." Rita was quiet again, and after a few minutes, he wondered if he hadn't put her to sleep instead.

"You know... It's only been hard because you're making it difficult. Really, it's a simple thing and you're just being an idiot again about the whole situation. You're looking at it wrong."

Her words were hardly convincing, so Raven scowled up at the branches in the trees, slightly irritated. "Really? Please, enlighten' me–"

"The reality of the situation is this: the rest of us? We've gotten over it and accepted the facts. But you? _You're_ still living in the past, old man." She shifted, rolling over onto her side, and he waited for her to stab him in the chest with a forefinger, to tell him just how wrong he was, and that these past thirteen years he had _indeed_ been going about his death completely and utterly wrong by her standards.

If it hadn't been her honesty speaking, he supposed he never would have believed her words.

"...Then what do you suggest I do to change, darlin'?"

"Well, first of all... get rid of that ridiculous expression you have on your face. You look like a clown. And second..." Rita wiggled over a little closer, shifting down until his face was even with hers. She looked uncomfortable, cheeks red and expression slightly pinched, but her voice didn't even waver as she let out a shaky breath, glaring as she poked him in the chest this time around—harder than necessary. "...And second..." she scowled rudely, "_stop_ pushing me away all the time, okay? I'm not going anywhere. Don't think I don't know you're thinking about Casey when you look at me like you do. About the Don and Alexei and—and everything else, too... Estelle. You shouldn't even be worrying about this stuff anymore, you died thirteen years ago, and things are different now–"

"Rita–"

"I can help if you let me, but I don't really _want_ _to _when you act like such a baby–"

He reached out silently and ran a calloused thumb over her bottom lip gently. She looked surprised and slightly annoyed, but the rate at which she was firing words at him slowed noticeably when his hand moved to cup her cheek then, and he idly tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Darlin'... you made your point. _I get it,_" he spoke softly, and she looked so stunned he had to choke out a laugh. "_I get it now_," he whispered again, and it was odd, because he truly meant what he said, and there was no traces of contempt to be seen. No Schwann or dead Damuron or sad Rita to greet him; in his head, only Raven was there, and it was refreshing feeling the burden disperse. Out with the old and in with the new...

Rita blinked at him irritably, green-blue eyes luminescent in his shadow. "_What_ are you even babbling about? I'm not finished talking ye–"

"Yes you are," he murmured sweetly, and the first kiss was rougher than he had intended.

He had only meant for it to appease her. She floundered for a moment instead, hands stretched out as if not sure whether to push him away or pull him closer, and then turned as still as stone (only much softer and without all the sharp edges that often came with rocks), and Raven was forced to snatch her up into his arms himself. Rolling over the last half foot of wet grass until he was towering over her, and it was all _Rita Rita Rita _every_where_–

"You talk _too_ much sometimes," he muttered, kissing her nose sweetly, and Rita promptly exhaled into his face, bringing her arms up around his neck. "But ya know what, I really couldn't give a dam–"

"_You_ don't talk to me enough," she growled accusingly, running her hands through his hair, and in a very soft sultry voice he hadn't heard her use since the night the Adephagos had met it's end and they'd both done enough confessing to last several lifetimes, she whispered his name, and it was the sweetest sound he'd heard in a long long while.

"I could say the same of you," he murmured back, but it seemed his wish had finally been granted, and it was hard to focus when her hands were tugging the thong from his hair inconspicuously, because it really _wasn't_ all that inconspicuous when she did it every evening, of every night, of every week, and the feeling was so pleasant.

"Yeah? But I'm not hiding things, now am I?"

"But you don't have anything you're trying to forget, now do you?" He stole another kiss, shifting his elbows in the grass until he was pressed against her comfortably and she grunted, removing the thong from his hair with ease (because she was _far_ too skilled at it).

"You can't be sure of that," she finally spoke, running her fingers through the few curls he had, and Raven had to stop and ponder her honesty for a moment, her hesitance.

"...So you do, then?" he asked carefully, and Rita's lips curved slightly, in an expression he identified as a I-would-feel-a-lot-better-kicking-your-ass-but-I'm-not-because-there's-a-simpler-way-to-handle-your-stupidity smile, and he considered bringing out his own collection of masks to wear, because apparently she saw fit to bring out hers.

"...Maybe," she replied, and in a slight building of frustration, he snuck a palm up the front side of her shirt, and pinched her side lightly, because his hands were cold, and she hated it when he did that. The crackling of the fire would have sufficed to cover up her swear lightly, but it didn't, he could lip-read her pretty damn well.

"Rita, you're not appeasin' my worries, darlin'. Vague answers are hardly what I'm lookin' for here."

"It was _supposed_ to be. You're being snoopy," she accused, and on queue, wiggled slightly in protest, trying to dislodge his cool grip on her. "And by the way, move your hand unless you want to lose it because it is freaking_ freezing–_" He spread his palm out flat for warmth, and she almost elbowed him in the face in her flurry of annoyance.

He spoke as if he hadn't interrupted her train of thought. "Of _course_ I'm curious! What did ya expect? Since when are _you _vague 'bout anythin'–" She let his hair fall, and Raven was forced to blink and shove the masses of hair out of his face mid-speech, using an elbow to prop himself up. He scowled at the interruption, because he had been on a roll, and she just built a blockade much bigger in size than himself. "Rita–" he tried to begin, but two clammy palms clapped against his stubbly cheeks from both sides, and she took the opportunity to squish his face together like one would a rubber ball, much to his bemusement.

"You can stop talking now," she said, and he was compliant, because this was Rita, and some people were alive and _worth_ listening to—and the more he thought about it, Raven's mask was the only one he felt comfortable in anyway.

Because really, who was he kidding, his death day could roll around for another sixty-two years and Rita would _still_ only ever look at him him this, talk to him like this, kiss him like this—and Schwann and Damuron? What did they matter anymore? What did Mt. Temza? Alexei? The Don?

_They were all in the past._

And this? _This_ was all he needed in his life. And he was a fool for not having realized it sooner.

"Hey, Rita..."

"...What?" Her chest thrummed against his, and Raven closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of her hands on his face.

"Thanks," he said, with a little embarrassment, because she was worthy of that—and so much more.


	4. 096: writer's choice

_**Lover to Lover**_

_five: writer's choice_

**_Sky Sailing_  
><strong>_Wherever they were going, their destination was uncharted. In the stars, or across the sky, neither of them knew where they might end up. At least, with each other—that was a certainty._

* * *

><p>They were a ship without a captain, waiting for an evening to sail and the stars to rise, and it was easy to imagine, beneath the atmosphere and upon the blue blue waves, how simplified everything seemed when the only sounds were the quiet conversations and laughter of friends at the hull, and the seemingly more personal ones hidden far from sight.<p>

When Rita had first joined him on the roof of the cabin, looking morose and slightly lost as he offered down a hand to pull her up, he hadn't wondered if there wasn't a reason she looked as indisposed as she did, flustered and strangely weary despite the tight grip he kept on her. But now, thinking about it seemed silly, when his perch was cool against his back and even more so against hers, the sky was alight in lamps and dry pastel shades and tufts of shredded cotton clouds, and her breathing was soft and slow beside him... there was no weight or sense of importance on his shoulders tonight.

It was how he liked the evenings, when they moved like molasses and the moments didn't pass by in the usual vivacious blurs that they typically were. He could still recall the afternoon's events, and the dry, hot air that had rushed by his ears when Ba'ul had lifted off the ground, and the view below that had suddenly become quite grand when the earth had been abruptly swallowed up from sight.

Right now, the earth was still invisible, but considering his gaze was directed upward, and land was below, it an obvious distinction he lightly chided himself for. On a night like this, it was easier on the eyes to simply trace the constellations anyway. If he ran his fingertips in a straight line, west to east, and twisted the tanner side of his thumb just so, and pulled down his sleeves so _she_ could get a better view...

"...Camelopardalis."

...It only made everything that much more tranquil.

To the right several inches, and a sigh in his ear. "...Cassiopeia."

North-east, arms shifting, sleeves dragging, a whisper. "...Cepheus."

And then, the inevitable; lips twitching as he calmly pointed out something that wasn't a constellation, and her head bumped his shoulder as she leaned against it to get a better look–

"Okay... You're truly an idiot if you don't know _that one_." He kissed her hair then, smiling softly against the crown of her head.

"Brightest star in the night sky, _Brave Vesperia..._" He whispered slowly, and he felt Rita's arms light up in goose bumps against his arm as he let out a lazy breath against her cheek . "See, I do know _some_ things about astronomy..."

"Yeah, the minority bit and pieces," she replied dryly, and Raven nudged her in half-hearted denial.

"Ya never know. I could be extremely knowledgeable and ya may not even know it."

"The last time I saw you read a book, you were clutching your head and moaning for hours about it afterwords."

He didn't dare correct her on the fact that it hadn't been the book he had been moaning about.

"Remind again me what brought me up here?" she prompted then, and Raven exhaled, allowing his arms to collapse on his stomach, tucking his hands comfortably into the infinite folds of cloth of his jacket. He considered her words for a moment, the silly technical jargon he could slyly remark back with. Instead, because the night was young and grand—he went for the lesser evil.

"Do the facts really even matter that much?"

It was a stupid thing to say, an even cornier thing to have asked—but surprisingly, even after he realized the weight of his words, she didn't refute it.

He considered it a blessing that she was even willing to listen in the first place.


	5. 003: ends

**Lover to Lover**

_five: ends_

_**This Dreaming State**  
>He's like a constant premonition; again and again, it's always his ghost that she sees. <strong>AU, weirdness, general language abuse<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>1890<strong>

_**Her legs, two clappers ~ in the bell of her dress, ~ as a girl she'd careen  
><strong>__**the dance-hall floor, ~ the men swinging ~ like lanterns into her sight,  
><strong>__**the band's syncopated ~ thunder loosening her joints,  
><strong>__**playing her like a puppet ~ so that she became  
><strong>__**a dummy of a girl ~ jimmied to the thrumming beat  
><strong>__**of the salon's suspiration.**_

_**The Anatomy Theater Poems -Nadine Sabra Meyer**_

* * *

><p>In the steady crowds of a sovereign's affair, sometimes, if she listened, let her attention slip through her fingers, watched the fragile glass twisted in her hand illuminate a distant stranger of peculiar charms, she'd catch a glimpse of a shadow, of something that simply wasn't, of a mystery as curious as the fire burning within the hollow of her throat, and the slight ache in the back of her skull.<p>

Sometimes, the shadow would bow, sultry limbs cast in dire gray, its traditional greeting and coy smile an image bold enough to be painted upon canvas, in curious broad and clean strokes of the brush, a palette of pale and ghostly colors; a brief throwing of the arm, spine curled down, neck arched, legs swept back beneath his spectral from, palm up and fingers splayed, as if to say, _do you dare? _

_would you care? do you mind this address? this camouflage I wear?_

And sometimes, when the nights were in their adolescent stages, and the mind still soft and fragile, and velvet was strewn across the floor, and the décor shined like artificial rubies in the chandelier's cloaked warmth, and the music was ripe and the laughter was loud, and the room smelled of sweat and honeyed fruits baked into the walls like a summer's bright afternoons; a sweeping of her own calf, a curtsy, and the shadow, in all its weariness and eschewed boredom, would step forth, resound across the universe, sultry palms and crisp evening wear a blush upon the flesh of her own as he graced her, and with all the allegiance and propriety of a ballet dancer, the balls of her feet a platform for which to move, she'd allow herself to be taken about the room, reluctantly, slowly, as if, this was a mere bribe and not the truth that tongue did speak.

This shadow, who saw all, wandered, floated, in a dreaming state, down the hallways and winding staircases, across the flourished corridors decked in charcoal and crimson curtains, out upon the balcony, where the air caressed her face and drew back the layers hiding his, and eyes smiled, as if, beneath this spectral, lied a man, a being of flesh and blood, a recognizable but incomprehensible truth, and the soft mist that was the stranger evaporated before her newly sharpened gaze.

An old friend he'd greet her, lips lifted, eyes soft, fading softly, mane turned to starlight, the night shedding its clothes of old, soft cotton descending like a cloak, and slowly, softly, gently, sinking, he gifted her with his shadow, and this new skin was fitting, like a slipper or a quilt, or an internal organ of the chest, she found, as she embraced it like a boon.

He'd draw her close, and she, feet heavy, and ankles tangled like a yarn of old, gently, gently now, a noise, deep from his throat emerged, a guttural language and accent thick and heavy like the earth, a smile, a goodbye, whispers from the larynx, and she, none the wiser, a spoken language of old that sloshed around and around her ears, beneath thinning lashes, and beneath silver hair, eyes of an older woman glanced up, youth's lines fading–

And the ghost smiled, brushing a strand from her cheek, and, drawing his furbished coat softly from her shoulders, a wisp of smoke guiding his footing, he drew away into the silence that was the early dawning, leaving a trail of stars in his wake.

_you always were one for dares... weren't you, darlin'?_


	6. 049: lost

_**Lover to Lover**_

_six: lost_

_**His State of Mind  
><strong>__She didn't like the distance between them. Even though, she realized, sometimes it was a necessity. **Drabble.**_

* * *

><p>There were several unspoken truths they never cared to share with one another. Little thoughts never spoken aloud. She kept hers coded in notes and scribbled down on scratch paper, tucked into the crevices of her drawers where Raven knew not to look. <em>Private private private<em> she'd chanted at him, flabbergasted when he'd walked into her room to find her rapidly hurdling notebooks, and never once did he peek without knocking again. Likewise, his secrets were his own. She'd learned long ago that their relationship was a give-and-take; he was entitled to privacy as much as herself. Even if she didn't always like that line between them, sometimes boundaries were necessary.

_(I'm sorry. I—I wasn't thinking...)_

Raven would stare over her shoulder in the evenings, looking past her face and at the universe beyond as if there were some great revelation he'd finally settled upon. He looked older at these moments, the sharp angle of his jaw and the tip of his nose harshly defined against the darkening shadows. _Tired_, she had realized after a while, _so very tired_, but not unhappy. His eyes were too bright for misery tonight, even if they were clouded over with that veil he didn't like to speak about.

When she asked after several minutes of quiet, he shook his head, bangs falling into his eyes like the dark curtains they were. He took a sip of his cooling cocoa and bumped her knee on the couch with his own, a reassuring touch that should have made her flustered but strangely made her chest hurt; it was an answer, more than the book to the face she could ever give him–

_it's nothin' important, dear, just this old man rememberin'_

–and foolishly, wisely, so very stupidly—she let it be.


	7. 077: what

**Lover to Lover  
><strong>_seven: what_

**You Put Up a Show  
><strong>_She was clearly agitated, but he knew there was more to it than her usual run-of-the-mill unrest. Tonight, he vowed, he wouldn't let it win. **Modern Day AU.**_

* * *

><p>He hadn't expected her to agree right away, though a small part of himself had hoped she would have at least decided to humor him. There were few things worth laughing about that didn't include her anymore.<p>

"...Please tell me you're joking, old man." She said it with her face rather than her lips, lids heavy and cheeks flushed prettily from the cold seeping through the entryway; Raven could have identified both sentiments with his eyes squeezed shut, and they would have ranked just the same in his mind.

Snatching a coat off the wall and tossing her her's like the gentleman he was, he indulged himself with a '_what the hell_' smile and pressed a brief kiss to her temple. She looked caught off guard, expression screwed up funny and nose crinkled as if she'd just bitten into something sour, but she didn't swat him away even after the moment passed, and simply glowered lightly instead as she obediently tossed the worn fabric over her shoulders and violently stuffed her feet into her boots.

"Darlin', trust me," he began, pulling on multiple shirts and scarves and gloves because the frost had it out for old men like himself, "You'll like the place, I can honestly promise ya that. I know the patrons. It's got a nice vibe—and the food's real good to boot."

Her look was languid and skeptical in the entryway, lazy and full of disbelief as the reflecting light from outside made her out to be a silhouette bent low over her feet. She cocked her head to the side to give him a better look, the red beanie on her head looking almost as ridiculous as the oversized jacket did on her small frame. Out of place, yet not. Different, yet comfortable.

Rita raised an eyebrow, tying her last shoelace without looking. "And if I don't?"

Raven simply grinned in response, buttoning the highly fashionable but refined multilayer coat she had gotten him for Christmas the year before, all big and heavy and orange and remarkably _warm enough _for someone who froze so easily; all the way up and over his chin the buttons clicked, and only until his arms felt as stiff as cardboard to bend did he feel satisfied that the cold would let him be in peace tonight.

"...And if fer some reason ya _don't _like it_,_ we can just as easily leave and come back here. Simple as that," he finished, but she hardly looked pleased, taking her position by the door with her arms crossed and back erect like a guard... guarding.

Guarding her mind and her thoughts and her body from him again.

"...That's not what happened last time," she said at last, glancing out into the realm of snow beyond their doorstep, face pasted with such a serious look and eyes iced over that he almost felt guilty.

But only almost, because there was no place for yesterday's now. Not when they were both living in the future. Not when they'd both come this far, it was silly to linger on stupid things like _yesterdays..._

Or at least, things were easier to make sense of when he only focused on one tense at a time—and the past was not one of them.

Sighing, he finished pulling on his third pair of gloves, slipping them over his large palms like a second skin of fabric and pulling his sleeves out over the top so that not even the smallest draft could snake in between the articles. After giving Rita a quick but thoughtful look, he tugged on one of the strands of her hat to call her attention—and they both wordlessly stepped out onto the worn wooden porch together, boards creaking and crying underfoot and slick with silver patches of ice in the evening's setting sun.

"You have the keys?" she asked, and Raven jingled his coat pocket of musical chimes in answer cheerfully, pulling the door shut behind him with a resounding _click _as she paused to wait.

"Hon, I _always_ got the keys. I got the key to yer heart, too," he winked, but her body language said she hardly seemed even interested in maiming him for his sly comments. Instead, she jammed her hands deep in her pockets and turned her back to continue, obviously impatient but not outright discourteous. It was something she only did when she was upset about something, and he'd come to recognize it for what it was over the years. It was the equivalent of a storm a brewin' and he knew it was a storm where lightning struck rich because she practically glowed with energy.

Luckily, he wasn't a very good metal conductor.

"Whatever," she snorted. "Let's just get this over with."

He smiled, but the charm didn't reach his eyes this time around.

"Just remember, we're the odd ones," he murmured, following her more slowly to the ends of the porch. He could tell just by the slight of her shoulders in her jacket that his comment hadn't been reassuring. Unsurprising.

Raven offered out his arm as soon as they hit the stairs, boots crunching softly now over the snow that had managed to breeze in and over the porch railing during the afternoon, and she glared irately at his limb through the large flakes of snow converging on her lashes. "...What are you doing?"

"Tryin' to be helpful. Black ice is the worst on stairs." He smiled, but she hardly looked convinced, brushing aside his offering and reaching out with a gloved hand to grip the railing with taut fingers. He didn't mention that he just wanted to hold her hand, because she'd blush up to her ears, cheeks flushed like the color of her hat, but he knew he'd be able to wrangle out a hint of a smile at the very least if he did.

"Well, stop it," she ground out between clenched teeth, muttering darkly. "It's just a goddamn forsaken staircase, nothing to get so protective about." She glared out at the streets, the few cars passing now and again, and the maples and tall, wild oaks coated in breezy white powder. Her sudden barrage was deafening; Raven sucked in a slow breath.

"...Cripes. What's eating at you?"

"Nothing that concerns you," she snapped back, and Raven's jaw snapped shut with an audible clap. He hadn't retracted his arm, so when she bumped into it by accident he didn't hesitate to firmly wrap hers in his own, ignoring her protests and rude, angry gestures.

"Rita darlin', take a breath, calm down, and tell me what's bugging you..."

"It's nothing that you need to be aware of presently, okay?" She was dodging him, trying to slip out of his arm and concerned presence.

"What? You're not havin' some romantic affair that doesn't involve me in it, are ya?" He waggled his eyebrows in a humorous attempt to diffuse the situation, but the affect was completely lost on her. He could tell, because she hadn't blinked, and her other hand still had yet to leave the railing.

"Wait... that's not what's really going on here, is it?"

Her face turned a furious shade of bright red as her hand swatted at him. "Of course not, you idiot! I would never do something like that!"

Despite having known it to be true, he still felt satisfaction in hearing it said.

"...Am I embarrassin' ya yet?" he whispered instead, and after a minute of tense silence she bumped him angrily in the hip, nearly toppling them both over the bottom final step of their house. Yes. Black ice _was _the worst.

"You always embarrass me," she muttered, and despite the people traversing the streets that stopped impolitely to stare at the rumored couple bouncing off their retinas, he lowered their arms and tucked her hand in his carefully, minding the fact that she hated it when he squeezed too tight—or didn't hold her close enough.

"We won't be spending all evenin' there, you know," he commented quietly, and she sighed loudly, feet kicking at powdery crystals in an obvious show of irritation. Irritation at him, or the people brushing past them along the sidewalk, he didn't quite know.

"Fine, fine, whatever. I honestly don't care _how_ late we're out. I just..." She finally relaxed against his arm. "I just don't want people to _talk_ like they did last time. I don't care what they say, but I can't stand to listen to it and not react when it involves us directly. I hate it when they look at us and they make assumptions. I hate that. A lot."

Raven simply smiled and gave her hand a soft, knowing squeeze. "Sorry to say, but no matter what ya do, people are gonna talk. It can be... _difficult_... to ignore them, yeah, but ya wanna know something you can do?"

Rita frowned slightly. She didn't look thrilled at his proposition, but the fire in her eyes had faded. "What?"

He gave the staring pedestrians standing at the crosswalk beside them a wink before whispering in her ear, his breath warm and inviting and a contrast to the cold:

"_Ya give them something worth talking about._"


	8. 058: lips

**Lover to Lover**_**  
><strong>eight: lips, sweet nothings, soft murmurings_

**You Reach Me**_**  
><strong>He found it strangely empowering how in control she was and how free he felt._

* * *

><p>Her lips were one of the most brazen things Raven had ever had the chance to taste. Her softness under her cold exterior, the gentle warmth that lingered when they'd part always – inevitably – seemed to catch him off guard. Or perhaps, he just wasn't quite as attuned to her as he thought; perhaps his guard had never been up to begin with. Or, perhaps, she was far too intoxicating for him to understand her true complexity; perhaps her soft lips had always been meant to be his undoing and there was no logic to it.<p>

Particularly at night, when he'd turn off his lamp-light and turn his head just slightly to the side so he could plant a delicate kiss on her forehead in arrivederci, those were the nights when he'd feel surprised the most. She'd shift in the warm sheets, stretching up on an arm to return his offer. It was charming, the way she did it; her movements were slow and cautious, her breathing calm and quiet against his chest. It was as if she were waiting for a message for a continuance. Usually, Raven met her half way instead, catching her upper lip between his, hands twining together where they settled comfortably on the warm part of her lower back where her shirt rode up to reveal soft and unmarked skin... but... sometimes she took the initiative. She was much slower in her show of affection, dilatory, yet deceitfully thorough. Every movement she made had purpose, every weight proportioned just right, every breath carefully planned to meet a part of his skin and make him flutter. One hand would waver nervously over his whirring heart, the other would remove the band from his hair and brush aging strands out of veiled cyan eyes.

She was meticulous, careful, a butterfly weary of a southern breeze. A kiss, innocent lips covering his own. And then, shifted weight to cover them both, blankets following, always following; she conformed to his body rather perfectly, her coverings cementing them in where the gaps tended to linger the most. A hand would caress the stubble along his jaw, soft finger-pads tracing an outline all the way to the nape of his neck and back again. He mirrored her, simply tracing her figure in the darkness while she pressed near for him to breathe her in.

He said her name, sometimes. _Rita._ Partly because it was beautiful to say. _Rita..._ Partly because he wanted her to hear him when she drew close enough for sweet, sweet nothings. _Rita . . . _Partly because he liked the way her name rolled off his tongue and onto her own. Partly because he didn't need an explanation. Partly because she was free to do how she pleased. He could always feel the indentation of a smile press against his skin, the way her chest rose and fell with breath, the curl in her toes against his shins. That smile held an unspoken secret, something knowing and wise beyond her years.

It was simply remarkable, he found, how much her lips said when she never said a word.


	9. 080: why

**Lover to Lover  
><strong>_nine: why?_

**Snitch  
><strong>_Always digging up some information / you get what you deserve__**. In game.**_

* * *

><p>The compact was something Rita couldn't resist investigating. It fell from the cloudless sky as if somebody – or something – had sent it flying Raven's way. He'd tucked it away casually when it bounced off his head, a stupid nostalgic smile on his face she wasn't familiar with. It was the first time she'd gotten a glance of the real him, the first occasion in which Raven was presented as he was. No bow ties or wrapping paper or casual remarks to hide him; in plain sight, without care, he'd given her something precious.<p>

Leverage. There was more to this tragic romance than he was letting on.

**.**

She found it difficult to do her research when he slept with it.

The first time she'd tried to get a peek at it, he was curled up against a log with his bow on the ground beside him and his arms contentedly sprawled upon his chest. Supine, legs crossed and face a warm glow in front of the fire pit. The shadows made him look old—the age he claimed to be. It contrasted awfully with the twist of his neck on his shoulder, the muscle rippling outward.

Very quietly, she stepped away.

It was rather insulting, actually, she found later, that he didn't trust his friends enough to show them something like a woman's compact. If anything, Rita would have expected it to have been a simple confession. He certainly liked telling stories—making Estelle giggle and Karol blush up to his ears. And yet, when it came to his own, he stalled.

Yes, there was something he was hiding. She just didn't know that he knew that she knew it, too.

**.**

Her second opportunity for an intervention came in the form of Judith.

Lovely, critical Judith. She caught on to Rita faster than she'd thought.

"Rita, what are you doing?" Heart racing, Rita turned to watch Judith's slow and quiet approach. Scowling, Rita gestured to Raven's jacket. He'd left it when he'd gone with the guys to bathe; now, it sat abandoned and vulnerable—within her reach and her raging curiosity.

Judith raised a delicate eyebrow in wait. In answer, Rita simply smirked. "Don't you want to know about this Canary person? He's obviously keeping quiet about her. He usually keeps his compact here–" Rita stuck her hand in one of the front pockets. She shouldn't have been surprised when all that met her was empty space; her hand sunk deep and disappeared. "Er, well, it _was_ here..."

The krityan was quiet when she spoke again. "I think this woman friend of Raven's was very close and personal to his heart. It'd be best not to probe, don't you think? If he wants to share, he'll do it in his own time. It's a bit rude to go through people's things."

Rita simply stared at the jacket, uncomprehending of the lesson being taught. What was it he was trying so badly to hide? And most of all - _why_ was it something worth hiding?

**.**

The third opportunity was a coincidence and nothing to be proud of.

Rita made a stupid mistake. The monster flung her into the side of a tree.

His jacket was used as a blanket. Her hands found their way inside the pockets with ease.

Her wonder burned; she couldn't resist.

There it was. A silver compact.

She tucked it down her shirt.

No one noticed.

(Judith swore later that she didn't breathe a word)

**.**

With bated breath in the dead of night, Rita popped the latch.

The little silver compact gleamed in the fire light, a small glow among dark shadows and exhausted sleepers. The design was pretty, intricately crossed lines and circles forming a pattern along the sides. For something so old in years, it wasn't very well worn. The small latch itself looked fairly new, as if the person who'd had it refrained from opening it often. Maybe it was a gift the woman - Canary - had just received—or maybe, she'd kept it tucked away as well. How curious.

Carefully, she opened it up with nervous fingers. She wouldn't have admitted to it, but she could feel the borders she was crossing. She was breaking the fundamental institution of trust; though, she'd never placed any trust in the old man to begin with and she sensed the feelings were mutual. Her reasoning for being curious was only furthered when nothing looked back at her; the insides were clean as if it had just recently been washed—

–And it was terrifyingly empty. Empty, empty, empty.

Rita held very still as she stared at the non-existent photo she'd imagined to lie inside. A photo of a young and beautiful girl and maybe the old man when he was younger and more agile. But there was nothing, no trace of _her_ even existing, no trace of his big smile and bright eyes. Was it because that man had never existed to begin with?

She snapped it shut forcefully, not caring if anybody heard. She raged into the palm of her hand.

Unsurprisingly, the smart bastard would be keeping his secrets tonight.

**.**

Across the fire, Raven grinned in his sleep.


End file.
